


This Wretched Gaze

by magickus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Begging, Control, Dom/sub Undertones, Exhibitionism, Grief/Mourning, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Masturbation, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Obedience, Oral Sex, Past Emet-Selch/The 14th, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Relationship, So much angst, This is DEFINITELY unhealthy, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Use of Feminine Terms, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, enemies to fuckbuddies, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickus/pseuds/magickus
Summary: "I like to watch."Emet-Selch and the Warrior of Light come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 17
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> of course whenever i write shitposts it turns out to be flouncy and poetic and a character/relationship study smh.
> 
> hope yall enjoy their rly complicated relationship

_ "I like to watch." _

Emet-Selch had looked him dead in the eyes, sought out his gaze and  _ held  _ it, and there was… something else there. Emet-Selch felt like a shadow, bleak and cold and empty— Claran never could connect his Echo to an Ascian— but as Emet-Selch made his statement and stared him down, a little piece of the facade slipped.

Beneath it was a spark of... something. Bright and tantalizing and forbidden, a distant star dancing just out of reach, beckoning him forward into the abyss.

Emet-Selch raised one brow. Curious, questioning. Was he asking something of him? Claran's breath grew tight in his chest. He stood at the precipice of a deep, dark plunge. He did not know where it would lead.

But it felt  _ good.  _ Swallowing, Claran nodded, once. Emet-Selch smiled, then turned away, breaking the captivated hold Claran found himself lost in.

They had come to some sort of agreement. A mixture of dread and anticipation coiled in him, like a restless serpent awaiting its chance to strike. It frightened him.

The days came and went. Claran and the Scions made their way through Norvrandt to dispel the sickly light. Emet-Selch did not reappear. It came with the sharp tang of  _ disappointment.  _ How pathetic was he, to expect so much from their enemy? Claran was not sure which possibility was worse— that Emet-Selch had played him again, that there was nothing there in the first place, or that he had simply been… forgotten.

There were more pressing matters to attend to, anyway. Claran bottled his worries and shouldered ever onward. He had his duty to prioritize first and foremost. He let the matter slip from his mind.

And, as things in his life tend to go, the day he stops thinking about his rejection is the day Emet-Selch decides to follow through.

Having an Ascian materialize into his inn room is not his ideal way to spend an evening. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as something in the room shifts, like the space within has been pushed aside to allow for the appearance of a new form. The black cloud comes first and Claran rockets from his desk, bare-footed and clad only in loose pajamas, to reach his grimoire. He flips it open and turns, runes at his fingertips, to find Emet-Selch stood with one hip cooked against his desk, his posture relaxed and uncaring, as if he belongs there.

Claran freezes. Emet-Selch regards him with clinical detachment. "Is this how you normally greet your guests," he asks dryly, "or am I an exception?"

Claran snaps his grimoire shut and takes deep breaths to calm his pounding heart. "Sorry." Emet-Selch huffs a laugh at his apology, ever amused by the Warrior of Light apologizing to an Ascian. Claran's cheeks grow warm. "I… I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh?" Emet-Selch raises a brow. "Have you forgotten our arrangement?"

Claran's breath rushes from his chest. Emet had not forgotten, contrary to his belief— but  _ he _ had, for a few short days. But now he is here and they are alone. Claran becomes dreadfully aware of how unkempt he looks, with his tangled nest of hair and rumpled nightclothes.

Emet-Selch watches him through his crisis. "Unless, of course, there has been a misunderstanding," he says slowly.

_ "No,"  _ Claran gasps. Emet-Selch raises a brow. Claran clears his throat and tries again, this time with less mortifying desperation. "N-no. I… I understood you perfectly. I think."

"And you have not rescinded your consent?"

Claran swallows. At least his initial assumption was correct— Emet-Selch  _ did  _ want this. With him. It is forbidden and a  _ horrendous  _ idea but gods does Claran long for it. "No," he breathes, trembling with want, so terribly that Emet-Selch sees and smiles, eyes glittering with cruel amusement, two bright pieces of gold trained onto him.

He advances slowly. Claran steps back once out of instinct, then forces himself still, allowing Emet-Selch to enter his space. He straightens his spine and towers over Claran, a gloved hand raising to his chin to force their gazes to meet.

"Undress," he orders, his voice soft yet commanding. It curls down Claran's spine, enchanting him.

He lets go of himself. He steps off that precipice and falls deep.

Claran hurries to comply, but Emet-Selch clicks his tongue and bids him still, like he is no more than a well-trained pet.

"Slowly, now," Emet-Selch says. He pulls out Claran's desk chair and turns it to face the bed. He lounges in it as if it is a throne, limbs sprawled and eyes heavy.

Claran takes a long breath. It's… fine. He wants this. He can do this. It's simply exposing his body, which he is unbearably conscious of, to someone he is  _ supposed  _ to hate— or at the very least distrust. He grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it carefully over his head. Emet's eyes wander the soft planes of his torso, flicking with lazy interest over Claran's exposed chest. He squirms, fighting off his discomfort as he eases off his pants, takes a deep breath, then pulls down his underthings. He steps out of the pile of shucked clothes and stands bare and shivering before Emet-Selch. He crosses his arms over his pudgy middle and avoids Emet's gaze, staring instead at the floor.

"Do not hide yourself from me," Emet-Selch says. Claran winces. He slowly straightens his arms and clasps his hands together behind his back, allowing Emet-Selch an uninhibited view of his body.

"Good," he purrs, and the praise makes Claran shiver and soothes the anxiety roiling inside him. Emet-Selch takes his time to examine Claran's body. His eyes roam lazily over his form, burning into his skin, a phantom touch against him. "You need not fret, Warrior of Light. If I had no desire to see you nude I would not waste my time."

It's curt, but somehow comforting. Claran shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Just… um. Just Claran. Please."

Emet chuckles. "Claran, then. You are  _ far _ too entertaining. It is a wonder how you have managed to become such a thorn in our side while carrying the disposition of a frightened mouse."

He is painfully aware he is being insulted. He bites back the sting of indignation. Emet-Selch is not exactly _ wrong,  _ after all. When Claran offers no response Emet-Selch's lips curl and he jerks his head to the bed. "Sit on the edge of the bed."

Claran's stomach twists itself into a complicated knot. He takes long, steadying breaths to calm the frantic tattoo of his heartbeat, and obeys. He sits facing Emet-Selch, and though the temptation rises, he makes no attempt to hide himself again.

Emet-Selch props his elbow up on the armrest of Claran's chair— though it does seem to be  _ his  _ now— and leans his head against his fist. He does not give further instruction. Claran's leg bounces fretfully as the anticipation eats him alive, each passing moment of tension-thick silence worming its way beneath his skin.

"Go on," Emet finally drawls. "Or are you so tame that you cannot do  _ anything  _ without being ordered?"

Claran hunches into himself, his fingers curling into the sheets. He bites his lip and says nothing. He feels like a small, wiggling bug pinned to a board.

"Well?"

"I… I just want to be good," he admits, burning with shame. "I want to make everyone happy— to make  _ you  _ happy."

"Eager to please, I see. Are you aching for my approval?"

Claran inhales. His breath stutters in his chest. "Yes."

"Is your consent born from fear of my  _ disapproval?" _

"N-no!"

"You are a flawed being motivated by fear, Claran. Are you afraid of saying no to me— to  _ anyone?  _ Will you sacrifice your dignity to me in the vain hope that I will not grow bored of you?"

All the heat escapes Claran's body, leaving him cold and empty. He feels dissected, splayed open and exposed for Emet-Selch's prodding fingers, poking anywhere that makes him hurt.

_ "Stop." _ Claran pleads. His gaze leaves the floor as he faces Emet-Selch head on. "I said yes because I want this."

"And why is that?" Emet-Selch drawls slowly, as if guiding a petulant child.  _ "Why  _ do you want this, Claran?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it, searching for an answer that Emet-Selch would accept. He comes up empty.

"Luckily, it appears I understand you better than you do yourself." Emet narrows his eyes, bright in the dimming candlelight. "Spread your legs."

Despite how unbalanced he feels from Emet's provocation, he does as he is told. He shifts his thighs apart to expose his core, still wet with his own slick. His simmering arousal had not abated since they began, even when faced with Emet's interrogation.

Claran examines Emet-Selch's features while he is distracted. The glint in his eyes is unreadable, in limbo between something hungry and something cruel. The warmth there is not soft and cradling; it seeps in and it bubbles and it blisters, caught behind his teeth like a well of flame rising from the throat of a dragon.

He drifts a hand to his thigh. Emet-Selch tracks the motion with mild interest. Claran trails his fingers up and down his leg, slowly, teasing them both with the barest of touches.

Emet smiles with sickly delight. "Go on," he purrs. "You do not need my instruction to properly entertain. Please yourself, Claran. Put on a good show." He spreads his hand in a sweeping gesture, his fingers extended, beckoning. "You have my undivided attention."

His palms are clammy with sweat and his mouth dry and arid. His chest burns with embarrassment, but he pushes himself ever onward, determined to see this through not just for his own gratification, but to prove to Emet-Selch that he  _ can.  _ He drags his hand along his inner thigh and his soft flesh gives beneath his own firm touch, the barest press of his nails leaving dark tracks against brown skin. A faint noise trickles from his throat, his eyes heavy as he watches Emet, the sound just as performative as the way he explores himself.

If Emet-Selch approves, he does not show it. Aside from that dangerous glint in his eyes, his face and his body remain as neutral and unbothered as ever. It is not particularly encouraging—  _ what if he really doesn't like it, or doesn't care? —  _ and requires a conscious effort to push away. He looks away from his audience and focuses his attention instead on himself, on the soft texture of his own skin and the raised line of his scratches, stinging with sensitivity. He finds it easier to act as if he were alone.

He moves his hand between his legs and runs the pads of his fingers against his slit. The first touch makes him jerk, gasping, his responsiveness heightened by the build-up and the circumstance. His body burns where eyes linger on him and he sinks into the dark, sweet flavor of being put on display, of being admired and enjoyed. He sighs as he spreads his folds, opening himself up, and strokes from his hole to his clit, his body singing in response to the much needed stimulation. Claran moans, more of an exhale than a proper vocalization, his voice high and breathy. His pace grows frenetic as he seeks out his clit with mounting urgency and rubs with the pad of his middle finger, his slick spreading across his skin and seeping down into the sheets. He pinches his pulsing clit between two fingers and groans, tugging it quickly with little finesse, reaching only for satisfaction.

"Look at me."

He obeys before the command registers. His eyes snap up, locking with Emet-Selch's intense gaze. There are no obvious signs of arousal, but his jaw seems tense and his voice has a new rasp. If he is at all affected by the display, he does not show it easily.

"Good boy," he praises, and Claran's hips jerk forward and he whimpers, panting for breath as he works his hand between his legs. His arousal burns with more ferocity at Emet-Selch's carefully constructed praise, perfectly conditioning him to thoughtlessly obey every command. He _ enjoys  _ it. Like this he cannot forget that he is not alone. He becomes agonizingly aware of every inch of his body, of the way he looks and the way he moves, of the tortured sounds falling from his lips like leaves from a tree.

"For one so concerned with how others perceive you, you seem to be taking _ great  _ enjoyment in this."

He moans and works himself faster, his hips bucking up into his hand. It blooms sweet and tart against his tongue.  _ "Nnh…"  _ he responds.

"Do you know now why that is, Claran?"

Does he? His thoughts are scattered on the wind, dust dancing in sunlight, and collecting them now will take ages. He does not want to think— only to feel. He plunges a finger into his cunt, up to the knuckle, and sighs in bliss.

"Stop." Claran whimpers, but he listens, leaving his finger buried inside his throbbing heat. "Answer me."

"I-I—  _ please—" _

_ "Claran." _

_ "Fuck!"  _ His eyes sting with tears. The words fall from his lips in a great rush as the dam finally gives. "I like it, I want to be controlled, to be told what to do. I always need to be a leader and be in control and strong and I  _ hate _ it, but with you I don't have to be, I can just let go and give it all to you, because you won't give me special treatment like everyone else does, because you're supposed to be my enemy but I like you far too much to care—"

The distance between them closes. Emet-Selch appears in the space before him and descends, grasping Claran's jaw between his fingers to force him into a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing the rest of his confession. He pulls Claran's finger out of his cunt and replaces it with two of his own gloved ones, shoving them in deep and fucking him hard.

Claran throws his head back, disconnecting their lips to release his broken cry, writhing in agony on Emet's fingers, pounding up into his g-spot with unrelenting accuracy. He grabs Emet's shoulders and claws at his coat, gasping for shallow, unfulfilling breaths.

"Good," Emet-Selch hisses against his ear, his teeth teasing the cartilage. "You kind, remarkable little thing. It pains me how little you have changed. Perhaps there is yet hope for you, for  _ us." _

Claran is not sure what he's talking about, far too lost in sensation to offer it a second thought. He rocks his hips down into Emet-Selch's hand, eagerly fucking himself on clever fingers. "Fuck!" he gasps. He buries his head against Emet's neck. "Fuck, fuck— I'm gonna  _ coooome—" _

"Do it."

He does, squealing as ecstasy rips through him like the fierce winds of a hurricane, sending him spinning. He bears down on Emet's fingers and the pressure increases inside as he continues to work Claran's g-spot, milking every burst of slick from his pussy until he cannot stand it any longer. Stinging with oversensitivity, he leans back and shifts his hips, pushing weakly at Emet's chest to slow his relentless pace, but he chases Claran up the bed and keeps his fingers buried deep, digging inside him and lighting him up until tears leak from his eyes and he comes  _ again,  _ mercilessly, falling stars blooming before his eyes.

He sobs and he accepts it, and only then does Emet-Selch slow his hand to an agonizing drag. He stares down at Claran and for the first time the facade crumples, and Claran is washed in foreign pain, drowned in a mire of anger and grief and loss.

Emet-Selch withdraws quickly. Claran winces as his fingers slip out of his hole, leaving him empty. He is quick to patch the weakness in his armor. The pain Claran felt from him vanishes back into nothing, and Emet-Selch is cold once more.

Exhaustion settles into Claran's bones, its weight sinking into the bed. "This arrangement was… mutually beneficial," Emet says, amused. "If there are no complaints I will find the time to return to you again, Warrior of Light. We shall see about giving over your control."

Claran swallows. Next time. The promise of more feels sweeter than anything. An illicit affair with Emet-Selch… It thrills him.

Perhaps, through this, they can come to an understanding. Maybe it can all finally be over. It's a lovely thought, and Claran lets it show as he smiles. "I… I would like that," he says.

Emet-Selch smiles back. "I know."

And then he is gone, leaving the space in the room to refill the hole he left behind.


	2. I've Learned to Lose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the first and last time for them both. They can indulge each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since spoilers in this for 5.3 yall.
> 
> between the short story and 5.3 I had to continue this. For the angst.

Somehow, it becomes routine.

He only comes during the restful, empty periods between one task and the next, where nothing immediate needs to be done and Claran is stagnant. He makes himself known, a black smoke just in the corner of Claran’s eye, and as his heartbeat quickens and he hurries for an excuse to find some privacy, he can feel Emet smirking at his back.

He finds his room and Emet-Selch takes him apart, piece by agonizing piece. Usually he observes only, offers no assistance other than the occasional dirty word of encouragement. On rare occasions he becomes a more active participant and makes thorough use of his words or his hands, but never more. Once Claran reaches satisfaction, Emet smiles and vanishes, leaving Claran to put himself back together alone.

He tries not to let it hurt.

It was only inevitable that his feelings would grow. Claran has always been soft like that; too easily affectionate, too desperate for attention. He feels the weight of it most acutely when Emet-Selch watches him get off with something akin to rapture. When Emet holds him like a lover and for one stupid, hopeful moment, he thinks that  _ maybe  _ there is something there. But once Claran comes down it is gone again and Emet returns to his cold, unaffected exterior.

He understands. The arrangement is for mutual pleasure only. It is his own fault that he allowed himself to develop feelings that would only lead him to pain. He lets it happen out of a selfish desire to be the object of Emet’s affection, if only for a little while, to feel what it might be like to be loved by him. It’s worth it, in the end, to feel  _ something _ from him.

This can only be temporary. After all, they are supposed to be enemies. It wouldn’t do to allow his attachment to take hold and ruin everything.

But just for now, he can pretend.

Emet-Selch makes a reappearance in the long wait following their ascent through Kholusia. Constructing a mountain-sized Talos takes no small amount of time and manpower, and when his assistance is not needed Claran is sent to bide his time in the safety and comfort of Eulmore. Though he does not care for the resplendent violet-gold draperies and plush furnishings of the room he is given, feeling distinct and out-of-place in his travel-dirtied and wrinkled robes, he does not have the heart to complain otherwise.

He’s becoming so exhausted, as their journey stretches on. Part of him feels that he is nearing its end.

He is no longer surprised when another presence joins him in his rooms. He sits curled upon a velvet chaise lounge. It is far smaller and harder than the massive four-poster bed in the corner with a mattress so soft Claran worries it might swallow him whole. Emet takes shape in the space before him and he glances up, unable to summon the energy to rise to meet him.

“Aren’t you spritely.”

Claran shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry,” he mumbles, speaking into his knees. “I’m just… really tired. Did you want to…?”

He trails off with a meaningful glance. Emet-Selch smiles and lounges back against the bed, barely rumpling the covers. He fits perfectly among the luxury, the decadence. He  _ was _ an emperor, after all. “Is that what you desire, Claran?” he asks, slipping smoothly into their informality, existing only within the pockets of time they spend alone. “Your enthusiasm today leaves much to be desired. I have no interest in performing with uninterested parties. You need only say the word and our game ends.”

Claran purses his lips. He should be putting in more of an effort, shouldn’t he? Before he becomes a burden, or uninteresting. Emet-Selch’s attention is fickle, after all. He’s not sure what he did to warrant it in the first place, but to lose it now… “No, no,” he says, shaking his head. Biting back a groan of pain he unfolds his stiff muscles and forces himself to his feet. Black curls into the edges of his vision and his head spins on its axis. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces it back. “I-I’m fine. I am. I want to— with you.” He reaches up and slips off his robes, letting them cascade to the floor in a rumpled heap. He’s too tired to care about his own nudity.

“You’re exhausted,” Emet-Selch observes dryly.

“...Yes,” Claran says. There’s no point in lying to him. “I feel like… like it’s all going to end soon. After the Talos is finished and Vauthry is… the Light will be pushed back. But I feel like... we’re so close, but with every sin eater my body grows heavier and heavier.”

“Ceaseless adventure will take its toll on your mortal body,” Emet says. “It would be wise to use what time you have to regain your strength.”

Emet steps away from the bed with an air of finality and something in Claran’s stomach sinks. He lunges forward, unthinking, and grips Emet-Selch’s coat tight. “No!” he gasps. He is not sure why but his whole body screams with some deep, writhing instinct, a desperate plea to nothing—  _ don’t go. _ “It’s— I’m fine. I want to— please stay.” His hands shake and he steps close, presses his brow to Emet’s back. He’s cold. “Please.”

Emet-Selch sighs and turns in Claran’s grasp, gloved hands coming up to rest upon his shoulders. “In this context, desperation is unbecoming of you,” he says. “You will push your body to its limits trying to please me.”

“I-I’ll be fine. I’ve handled worse. I can keep going, just— just don’t leave. It feels like… like this is the last time, after this we won’t…”

“And if it is?” Emet-Selch grasps his chin and forces his head up, craning down to meet his gaze. Claran burns with discomfort, but he has learned to look over their time together. “I have made it quite clear to you that our trysts are just that. What we have is a temporary, fleeting distraction— nothing more.” His eyes narrow and he leans down further, too knowing. “Have I not?”

Claran shudders. He wants so desperately to look away, to make sure Emet-Selch cannot see what hides in his heart, but he knows it’s far, far too late for that. He feels small and pathetic. “...You have,” he says. His voice shakes. “But I haven’t honored that. I’ve been selfish and I let myself get too close, too attached to you, even though it’s such a  _ bad  _ idea I couldn’t just... I-I’m sorry, if you want to leave you can, I won’t make you stay or—  _ mmf!” _

Emet-Selch kisses him. The force of it makes Claran stagger back and his legs knock against the intricately carved wooden bed frame. Emet pushes into it, his lips parted against Claran’s own, a tongue dipping into his mouth, consuming him from the inside-out. It feels as if the sun itself burns in his chest, molten-hot, casting him in flame. Claran yanks his head back with a gasp and his lungs heave for each breath. He had been under the assumption that Emet-Selch was finished with him, and yet—

“E-Emet, I don’t…”

Emet-Selch presses a finger to his lips. His expression is tight, gold eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Something breaks through. “Hades.”

“E-Excuse me?”

“I will stay. Out of my own will, I assure you, before you start blubbering at me about it.” Claran’s face grows hot and he closes his mouth before he does exactly that.

Emet’s eyes become gentle. The crease in his brow eases and the tightness in his mouth softens. His face soothes back into something… sad, hopeful, loving. Claran’s breath stops in his throat. Emet-Selch’s familiar pain and longing washes over him. It feels raw and open, like Claran is looking at a terrible wound. 

“I have been aware of your feelings for me,” Emet says. “You made it difficult  _ not  _ to be. Though it is a horrendous idea for either of us to be doing so… since you have convinced yourself this is the last time, I will indulge us both.” Emet-Selch’s lip curls at the corner and he arches a brow, returning briefly to his usual dry humor. “With the request that you address me by my  _ proper  _ name— Hades. If we are going to let our feelings run their course tonight, it seems only appropriate that we dash every form of good sense to the ground while we’re at it.”

Emet—  _ Hades _ moves his touch from Claran’s lips to his cheek, and his thumb smooths over his skin. His arm winds around Claran’s waist and pulls him into an embrace.

“...Hades, then,” Claran says. The warmth inside him grows at Hades’ approving smile. “Does… does this mean you…”

“Indeed. For longer than you can begin to imagine.”

Claran frowns. He should be elated upon the reciprocation of his feelings, but there’s still something there, just below the surface, too murky for him to see. “What does that—”

Hades kisses him again, and his questions disappear from his mind.

His palms press against Claran’s back and he leans forward, easing him down onto the bed. The feather-stuffed blankets and pillows surround Claran, silk smooth against his bare skin. It’s far too rich for his personal taste but Hades’ eyes glint with approval at the sight of him splayed out against the covers, bare and flushed and ready.

Even just this much is more active than Hades has ever been during their affair. Hades stands at the edge of the bed and with great care begins plucking off his gloves, then his boots and his heavy coat, letting it all sink to the floor as Claran watches, awestruck. Hades bares himself for the first time, exposing pale and unblemished skin, his body perfectly sculpted to suit his tastes. His musculature is firm but not bulging, his build lean, and between his legs his cock hangs at half-arousal, nestled in a small patch of brown hair. 

Hades smiles as Claran averts his gaze quickly. He climbs up onto the bed and presses soft, cool palms against the insides of Claran’s thighs, urging his legs apart so he could slot his hips between them. “A-Are… are you going to…” Claran begins, working through his embarrassment. It was just starting to get easier with him, too— but then Hades had to throw him for a loop yet again.

“If that is what you desire,” Hades says. He bends down and kisses Claran again, no more than a soft press of lips. It’s disarmingly intimate. “There will be no restrictions on what happens between us tonight. Whatever you long for, I will give it to you.”

“Em— Ah, Hades, I… I don’t want this to be one-sided.”

Hades arches his brow. “Oh, my dear, trust me. It most  _ certainly  _ will not be.”

“I-I mean this whole time it’s just been you making me feel good, but I want to make  _ you  _ feel good too.”

“You are  _ truly _ adorable.” Hades chuckles and smooths Claran’s hair from his brow with a gentle touch. “I said  _ whatever  _ you long for, did I not? If you desire to meet my needs, then far be it from me to dissuade you.”

“A-Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The clear consent spurs him into action. He places his small hands against the flat planes of Hades’ chest and pushes up. Hades goes with a hum, propped against the mountain of plush pillows on the bed as Claran sits upright. His legs naturally fall apart as he relaxes, his arms loose at his sides, eyes hot beneath his lashes. Claran carefully creeps towards him, his explorations meticulous. He glides his hand along Hades’ chest, feeling his skin, the way his chest moves with each breath. Their proximity to one another is tantalizing, as Claran is allowed a closeness that for too long he has been denied.

It probably is not wise, but he wants to let it happen. Hades said they would both be indulging themselves. Just for today, perhaps, he can pretend that they aren’t enemies, that tomorrow he will wake up beside Hades and they can just… be.

He presses a kiss to Hades’ neck, feels the rumble of his voice against his lips. He trails down, sneaking furtive glances upwards to ensure that this is acceptable. Hades places a hand to Claran’s head and adds the barest of pressure and Claran sinks under his touch, his lips gliding a path further down.

He looks up and Hades catches his eyes and smiles. He stays, enraptured, gazing up into gold as he opens his mouth and licks a long stripe up the length of Hades’ cock.

He tastes of skin and salt and warms against his tongue. Claran cannot help but moan, so eager to finally be here, to be able to touch him as he so desired. Arousal blossoms within him and he dips his head to take the full length of Hades’ cock into his mouth. He swallows him down, encouraging him to full hardness, and with a soft exhale Hades curls his fingers into Claran’s hair. He does not push but Claran wants him to, longs for it, and with a moan of need he relaxes and lowers himself further until the head brushes against the back of his throat. He stays there until his eyes burn for air, swallowing around the length.

“Easy…” Hades tugs on his hair and with a gasp Claran resurfaces. His thumb brushes over the fullness of Claran’s lower lip. “You need not convince me of your prowess. This body is no longer as young as it used to be and I have no desire to end this night prematurely.”

He guides Claran up and kisses him, his tongue swiping over his lips to steal a taste. Claran shivers. “Please,” he breathes. He paws at Hades’ hips.

“Soon,” he says. He kisses Claran’s cheeks, his lips against the bruised skin below his eyes.

“I-I want you.”

“And you will have me.” He tips forward and sends Claran sprawling onto his back once again. He plants a palm on the bed. “And I will have you.”

“N-no, Hades—” The name comes easier now, familiar on his tongue. Hades draws back but Claran reaches out and pulls him in. “I want  _ all  _ of you. I-I’m sorry, I know it’s selfish of me, but I can still feel your pain, your sadness. I want to be here, I want to  _ help _ you. I don’t want you to keep things from me. I don’t want to be enemies. I  _ love  _ you.”

His eyes sting with tears and he struggles to hold them back. Hades gazes down at him in a mixture of awe and deep sadness. “If only it were as simple as it used to be,” he says.

“I don’t understand,” Claran pleads. He grips tight at Hades’ arms. “What does that mean?”

_ “Azem.” _

His breath rushes from his lungs. He has never heard that name before, and yet it hurts him so  _ much.  _ “Wh-who is that?” he asks. He cannot stop the tears from falling now, tracking out of the corners of his eyes and ruining the bedsheets. “Is… is that who you would rather be with right now?”

Hades shakes his head. “You still do not understand.”

“Then  _ help  _ me understand. Please.”

“I cannot do that. Not right now. This is something you have to come to know yourself.” He cups Claran’s cheek in his hand. “Perhaps this may help. I still hope that… for you, for us, perhaps…”

Hades seems so lost. The pain in Claran’s chest only grows, a mixture of his own and the feedback he receives from Hades. He’s in an endless freefall, descending into a dark, cold place. “C-call me Azem,” he says. He digs his fingers into Hades’ arms and holds tight. “Pretend I am that person you want. I-if it will help you, then…”

Hades flinches, as if Claran had struck him across the face. The pain worsens. “You do not understand what you do to me,” he says. “To have you returned, to have you  _ whole, _ I would give anything on this star. And yet you still do not remember, do you?”

Claran tips his head into Hades’ palm and gazes up at him. “I could never forget you,” he says. “I will always remember, Hades. Please.”

Hades’ face crumples with grief and he folds forward and kisses Claran deeply. He grips his legs and angles his hips upwards, pausing for a scant moment. Claran pulls back and gasps, his fingers knotting into Hades’ hair. “Do it, please,” he begs. He presses his face into the crook of Hades’ neck and breathes deep, his legs hooking around his waist to draw him in. He wants it, even if it hurts. To feel Hades’ love will be enough. “Hades—”

His voice drops into a moan as Hades pushes forward and fills him. Another kiss silences his cry. He’s wet from the anticipation alone, though the pressure inside him edges too close to discomfort. Hades waits, keeping himself carefully still as he presses kisses to Claran’s face, covering every part he can reach with love that is not his— not truly. But it’s fine. He tells himself it’s fine as he rolls his hips and the friction inside him blooms into pure, molten heat; as Hades moans and jerks his hips forward, a name dancing on his lips.

Claran sobs. Hades holds him close and rocks into his heat. The pace is careful and steady, quick enough to bring Claran to pleasure. It’s good. It’s what he’s wanted since their affair began, since he fell so deeply in love with Emet-Selch, with Hades. He weeps against Hades’ shoulder until Hades pulls back and looks at him, stricken with grief.

“Forgive me,” he whispers. He kisses Claran’s brow as he makes love to him. “Only you could make me love you all over again. Even now, like this...” He gasps and thrusts faster. It builds and it builds, striking Claran deep inside, working him to his own peak, so sickly-sweet against his tongue.

“Hades…” Claran gasps. It feels right to say, like it was meant to be. “Oh, Hades…!”

_ “Azem!” _

Claran comes, sobbing with pleasure and grief, and after a few more strokes Hades follows. He buries himself deep inside and comes, shuddering, his breaths puffing hot against Claran’s skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and stars fall in the dark.

It didn’t work. It still hurts. Claran feels cold. Hades pulls out and lies beside him, gathering Claran up in his arms and holding him close. “Forgive me,” he says again. He kisses the top of Claran’s head. “For all these countless millennia we have been apart, Azem, know that I have never stopped loving you.”

Claran wishes so desperately that it was him.

He wakes the next morning, head pounding, to an empty bed, and tells himself it was fine. He tells himself he’s fine as he and the Scions ascend Mount Gulg, as they confront Vauthry, as the Light inside him finally begins to tear him apart—

And Emet-Selch—  _ Hades—  _ looks down upon him with such sorrow, such disappointment, because Claran still does not understand. Even as he disappears with the Exarch, Claran still loves him.


End file.
